Flyaway Page 8

  "What time are you leaving?" I ask.

  "Like, right now. I could swing by and pick you up in, say, ten minutes."

  I imagine a day of hanging out in the park, of gazing into the Professor's eyes and maybe getting back to the kiss we started after Tonya's party. I'm tempted to ditch Rick and go for it, but the hell I'd catch from Aunt Mindy wouldn't be worth it.

  "Can't," I say. "But maybe I could meet up with you guys later."

  I hear laughter in the background, and then a girl's voice says, "Let's get a move on, Prof." It sounds a lot like Laura Rogers, but there's no way he'd hang out with her.

  "Which side of the park are you going to ?" I ask.

  "Come on!" the girl says again. I could swear it's Laura.

  He laughs. "I'm getting yelled at here. Catch you later, okay?"

  I toss my cell phone onto the bed. It isn't fair. I'm the only kid in Seattle who has to spend summer vacation in the friggin' library. But I tell myself I'd rather do a thousand book reports than hang out with Laura or even Tonya right now. I just don't get why a smart guy like the Professor would want to hang with them, either.

  In an effort to shake off my stinky mood, I throw on my camouflage pants and an orange crop top. Just for fun I shove my feet into a pair of red heels so high I feel like I'm on stilts. On my way to the library, some old dude with a cowboy hat leans out his car window and yells, "Hey, babe, need a ride?" I mouth "No," but I smile at him, like Mom would. The high heels pinch my toes. Amazingly I manage to make it to the library without tripping and breaking my neck.

  Rick strolls into the conference room. He has a new, super-short haircut, and the little stubble of beard that used to pepper his chin is gone. He glances at my shoes, then smiles and shakes his head. "Did you get a chance to look at those math problems I gave you?"

  "Um ... actually, I was pretty busy."

  He raises one eyebrow. "I won't even ask you about the book report, then. I know all about busy weekends."

  No doubt. I bet he got his hair cut to impress some hot date.

  "We'll just go over those problems together, then."

  He's reaching for my math book when I notice the pieces of paper sticking out between the pages. My latest NTD House drawings! Before I can do anything about it, he's opening one of the papers and smoothing it on the table.

  "What's this?"

  "Nothing." I reach out to snatch it away.

  He anchors the paper to the table with his hand and studies it. "Very cool. It reminds me of an architectural drawing."

  It is one of my better ones. I spent hours putting in lots of detail—a spiral staircase and a skylight and everything. Still, having him stare at my NTD House—which no one besides Mom knows about—is kind of driving me insane. I try to pull the paper out from under his hand, but he presses down harder.

  "I thought we were doing math."

  He looks at me, then back at the drawing. "Okay, let's do some math." He jabs his finger in the middle of my living room. "What's the slope of this skylight ?"

  "How should I know?"

  "I'll tell you how you should know." He opens my notebook and starts scribbling. I've never seen him this excited before. "You use the mathematical formula for determining slope."

  I stare at his chicken scratches. "I'm not really into numbers."

  "But let's say you're talking to the contractor who's going to build this house. How's he going to get that skylight just the way you want it if you don't know the slope ? How's he going to build that beautiful spiral staircase without knowing the dimensions of each stair? And how's he going to come in on budget without an estimate of the cost of materials? It's all about numbers, Stevie."

  "Okay, okay, I get it."

  We spend the next half hour figuring out the square footage of each room, the slope of the skylight, the dimensions of the staircase. It's actually kind of fun, and by the time we're done, I've scribbled numbers all over my drawing.

  I figure we'll drop the whole thing when we get to Language Arts, but no, he has me write a paragraph describing the house using simile and metaphor. We go through all the subjects like that, relating everything to my NTD House. When he closes the books and tells me it's three o'clock, I can hardly believe it.

  He winks at me. "Like they say, time flies when you're having fun."

  I roll my eyes the way I always do when he says something corny, but I'm actually bummed we have to quit.

  "I'm glad we finally found it, Stevie."

  "Found what ?"

  "Something you can get excited about. I knew it was there somewhere." He stuffs his books into his bag, and I can't help noticing the ripple of muscles under his shirt.

  "They're just drawings."

  "Don't sell yourself short. You've got a great sense of space and design. You could be an architect someday if you wanted. Ever think of that?"

  I shake my head.

  He looks at me for a long time. "The future's going to get here whether you think about it or not. You could do it, Stevie. If you studied hard and got yourself to college, you could make drawings like that and get paid for it."

  I concentrate on the little dents my heels are making in the beige carpet. I just figured when I graduate, I'll get a job as a waitress or something. Or help Mom with her jewelry business.

  He looks down, then looks back at me and clears his throat. "Maybe it's not my place to say this, but while we're on the subject of your future, you might want to rethink the way you're dressing. Personally, I like your look. But you wouldn't want to show up at a job interview dressed like that."

  I wrap my arms around my naked middle to shut out the sting of his words. Who does he think he is, anyway? I know I dress different; that's what me and Mom do. Aunt Mindy's always offering to take me shopping, but I refuse to go.

  "What's it to you?"

  "Hey, no need to get bent out of shape. I'm just saying you got to start taking yourself seriously, girl. If you don't, nobody else will. And you deserve to be taken seriously. You really do."

  I stare at him. Nobody's ever told me I could go to college. And for sure nobody's told me I deserve to be taken seriously. It seems like the kind of stuff a dad would say.

  Not that I would know. The only thing I know about my dad is his name was Eddie and he left before I was born. I wish he was still around, though. If I had a dad, I bet Mom wouldn't be working at the club. She wouldn't stay out all night, and she wouldn't be into drugs. If I had a dad, I wouldn't have to keep her away from Drake.

  "Uh-oh," Rick says. "You know I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

  I fake a smile. "Allergies."

  A week goes by and I don't hear from Mom. I check the mailbox every day, but it's always stuffed with bills and catalogs for Aunt Mindy. I tell myself Mom's busy or maybe they don't let her write letters.

  Then on Saturday morning I'm cracking open one eyelid, checking to see if it's noon yet, when there's a knock on the guest room door.

  "Stevie," says Aunt Mindy, "mail for you."

  I jump out of bed and throw open the door. Aunt Mindy's wearing black spandex shorts and a sports bra, and she's got a flowered gardening glove on her left hand. In her right hand she's holding an envelope. Even from across the room, I can tell the handwriting on it is Mom's.

  It's weird: I've been waiting forever for this letter, but the thought of actually opening it makes me so nervous I could puke.

  She looks at me and frowns. "You want me to read it to you?"

  I nod.

  "I planted your mom's hydrangea in the front yard, next to my azalea," she says as she gets rid of the glove and then perches on the edge of the bed. "They can keep each other company."

  I plop down next to her; she smells like plants and dirt. She slits the envelope open and slides out a folded sheet of paper. It's the kind with blue lines, like you tear out of a notebook. I want to tell her to hurry, but it's hard to talk when you're not breathing.

  "Hey, Honey Pie," she reads.
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br />   I can imagine Mom giving me a squeeze as she says this. I can even imagine her smell and the feel of her arms around me.

  Aunt Mindy looks up. "You want me to keep going ?"

  I can't talk through the tears I'm choking back, so I just nod.

  "Got your letter. Sorry it took me so long to write back. They keep me busy around here. I'm not mad at you. I'm the one that screwed up.

  "My counselor here helps me understand stuff about my life. Like that I've been a crappy mom. Being a good little prisoner (ha ha), so they'll let me out of here early.

  "P.S. Soon as I get back, let's do a Smackdown party—popcorn with extra butter. I promise you things will be different."

  Aunt Mindy folds the paper real slow and sticks it back in the envelope. "I'm glad she answered your letter. Be careful, though. I don't want to see you get hurt."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  She sighs. "How can I put this? I'd take it with a grain of salt if I were you—all that business about things being different. I'm sure she means well, but people don't change overnight."

  I look at her like she's gone crazy. "You saying my mom's a liar?"

  "June always has lots of big ideas, but she can be skimpy on the follow-through."

  Great. Right when I'm starting to think Aunt Mindy might not be that bad, she goes and pulls this your-mom's-a-loser crap again.

  I stand. "Like you're so perfect."

  "All I'm saying is, your mom hasn't got much of a track record."

  "Quit talking bad about her."

  She gets up to leave and holds out the envelope. "I don't want you to get your hopes up and—"

  "Shut your face!" I snatch the letter from her hand and flop onto the bed. "I hate you!"

  CHAPTER 11

  I avoid Aunt Mindy the next few days, which is easy. There's some big workshop going on at the Pilates studio, and she has to be there from early morning until, like, eight at night. Mostly she leaves notes: I won't be home for dinner, there's leftover chicken in the fridge or Here's three dollars, pick up some milk or Don't forget the recycling I rip them into tiny pieces.

  I start spending even more time at On the Wing. Every day I hop the bus over there as soon as Aunt Mindy leaves and stay till it's time for tutoring or till Valerie forces me to go home. No matter how pissed I am at Aunt Mindy, hanging out with the birds always calms me down.

  I'm heading to On the Wing Wednesday morning when it starts to rain. If there's one thing I hate about Seattle, it's the weather. Winters are bad enough—the weather's cold and wet, but at least it's predictable. Summers, though, are all over the place. You'll get a stretch of eighty-five-degree days, and you'll think you can finally put your winter stuff into storage. Then the next morning you wake up and it's sixty degrees and raining.

  But today it's not just raining, it's pouring. I hang my hoodie on the hook by the back door and wander into the cage room, where a chocolaty aroma hangs in the air.

  "Smells awesome in here," I say to Alan, who's leaning against the counter. I'm still pissed at him, but I figure since we have to work together, I should at least try to be civil.

  He holds up a mug with a picture of a German shepherd on it. "Hot chocolate. Want some?"

  "Sure."

  I study his back as he microwaves me some hot water. "It's just us today. Valerie's visiting her sister in Sequim."

  He hands me a mug and a packet of Swiss Miss, and I'm careful not to let our hands touch. I take my first swallow too fast; it scorches my lips and burns all the way down to my belly.

  "Watch out," he says, "it's hot." He gives me one of those straight-ahead smiles.

  "Well, we'd better start feeding," I say, glad of an excuse to turn away. I don't know why he's being so nice all of a sudden. I pull on a latex glove, then take a yogurt cup out of the warmer and set it on a plastic tray, along with a syringe, a paintbrush, a paper cup filled with water, and a wad of cotton balls. "I'll start with the baskets."

  I always volunteer to do the baskets, now that Tweety Bird has graduated from her incubator. As soon as I lift the net cover off the first basket, the crows inside start to gape and caw, opening their beaks so wide I can practically see into their stomachs.

  "Hi, guys," I whisper. I glance at Alan to make sure he doesn't hear me talking to the birds, but he's busy at the incubators. A couple of swipes along the crows' tongues with a paintbrush dipped in water, and they're ready for the syringe. They jockey for position as I go back and forth between them, injecting brown mush down their wide-open beaks.

  I know I shouldn't hurry, but I'm anxious to get to Tweety Bird. So I give the crows a quick bath with the mister and then replace the basket cover. I continue down the line, feeding a fat jay, two tiny bushtits, and a couple of swallows. At last I come to the blue basket labeled "American Robin D."

  "Hey, Tweety girl," I whisper as I set down the feeding tray and fill a syringe. But when I lift the net, the basket is empty. I stare at the bare perch as if looking hard enough could make her reappear.

  Alan comes up behind me. "Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. We moved the robin to the aviary. I haven't gotten around to cleaning out the basket yet."

  What do you mean, 'the robin? That's Tweety Bird! I want to say. But I know he'd just make fun of me. "When was that ?" I ask.

  "Yesterday after you left. It's still eating formula, but it's also been eating some dish food and flapping its wings a lot, so we decided it was ready. We can keep syringe-feeding it in the aviary till it's completely weaned."

  "Thanks a lot." I slam the syringe down so hard the water cup tips over. Water spills onto the feeding tray; the cotton balls are a soggy mess.

  "Whoa, what's your problem?"

  "You could have waited for me. She is my bird."

  "Just because you found it doesn't mean it's—"

  "You know what I mean."

  He peels off his glove. "Come on. Let's go take a look."

  I grab my hoodie and follow him out the back door. The rain has let up some, and the drops feel like tiny pins pricking my skin. Our shoes make sucking sounds as we traipse across the wet lawn. I haven't spent much time in the aviaries, which are like giant, walk-in birdcages. For one thing, they make me kind of nervous: birds flying all over the place and pooping on you or sitting on the ground where you could squish them with one wrong step. For another thing, the aviary is the last place a bird goes before you have to say goodbye to it for good.

  We get close to the first aviary and peek in. Birds flit from branch to branch, sometimes swooping down to eat soaked cat chow, worms, or berries from the food dish on the floor.

  He points to a branch near the aviary ceiling. "There it is."

  It's Tweety Bird all right. She's perched there, puffing out her sleek, spotted belly like she's trying to show it off. I can hardly believe she's the same pathetic bird I spotted near the cemetery just over a month ago.

  I unlatch the aviary door and let myself in. The air smells like fresh leaves and bird poop. I move slowly to the branch where Tweety Bird sits.

  "Hey, Tweety," I call, not caring what Alan thinks anymore.

  She just looks at me through one beady black eye.

  "Come here, girl."

  I reach toward her, but she sidesteps to the other end ofthe branch.

  "Come on, Tweety, it's me!"

  She takes off, flitting to a branch at the opposite side of the aviary.

  I can't keep my voice from breaking. "Stupid bird!"

  Next thing I know, Alan's beside me. "Look," he says, "I told you not to get attached."

  The rain picks up again, and fat drops fall through the aviary roof. I shiver and pull my hoodie tight around me.

  "You cold?" He takes off his army jacket and puts it over my shoulders.

  I'm surprised how gentle his touch is. For some reason I'm scared to look at him.

  "How can you stand it?" I ask. "How can you stand to start caring about them and then have to let them go?"


  He shrugs. "You get used to it after a while."

  I remember what Tonya said, about him only working here because he has to. "You do care about them, right ?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "This friend of mine thought you were only doing this because you have to, for community service."

  He stiffens. "Don't you and your friends have anything better to talk about ?"

  Why does he have to turn every single thing I say into something negative? I try again. "I told her when you're with the birds, you're cool. I mean, you're patient with them. And, well, sort of gentle."

  "Great. Now she probably thinks I'm a fairy."

  I have to laugh at that one. "Give me a break. I'm trying to say something nice."

  He turns away. I usually think of Alan as this big guy. But when I see him standing there, his shoulders hunched against the cold, he looks more like a sad little kid. I never noticed before that his dark hair has hints of red in it.

  "I also told her that inside, I think you're a good person."

  For a minute the only sound is the flitting of bird wings. Then he turns back to me, still staring at the muddy ground, and says, "Yeah, right. Like you actually believe that."

  "Yeah," I tell him, "I actually do."

  He looks up, and I feel like I'm falling into his eyes. I'm not sure who starts it, but suddenly we're kissing. His strong arms wrap around my back. His face is clammy and cold, but his lips are warm. He covers my mouth with tiny, soft kisses. I start to pull away, then realize I want more. He cradles the back of my head, holding me gently as his kisses get longer and deeper. I let my mouth open beneath his.

  But as soon as his tongue touches mine, I twist away. What am I thinking? I've got a chance with the Professor, and I'm not about to screw that up for Alan Parker.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I've gotta go." I thrust his wet jacket at him, burst through the aviary door, and take off across the spongy lawn.

  "Wait!" he yells.

  But I just keep going.